A/N: Some adult themes are briefly mentioned in this chapter as a warning. Thank you everyone for the support, it means a lot. :)
Never had she felt so cold.
Freezing rain and snow battered her ceaselessly in an endless blizzard, prickling and stabbing her shivering body without mercy until she felt raw. Hoarse, uneven breaths left her lungs as she stumbled against a boulder half-hidden in a snowdrift, a pained cry bursting from her swollen lips.
Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are. Pretender.
A face haunted her mind, black, soulless eyes latching onto hers as the leathery remains of a mouth curled back into a wolfish snarl. Ellaria desperately willed the image to go away with what remained of her strength, tremors of fear wracking her. She was terrified, hastily blinking back unshed tears as she trudged onwards, searching for people that wouldn't be there, hoping for someone to rescue her.
No one came. They wouldn't, she slowly realised, leaning against an ironwood. Not for a knife-ear. The remnants of Haven had fled from the destruction, thinking that she had self-sacrificed herself to save them. And she had. Ellaria couldn't even begin to describe the emotions she felt at creating the avalanches, watching as what she had slowly become familiar with hastily destroyed in blood and fire.
Then everything was replaced by a numb shock when a monster stepped forth from the belching flames, as if marching from the hells themselves. She hadn't thought him real, at first, simply a figment—an illusion of some sort of her broken imagination.
Her shattered ankle attested that the creature wasn't. Fresh scars littered her arms as the Mark faintly pulsed with ribbons of greenish-blue life, making her hands tingle unpleasantly. Gashes and mottled bruises covered her face and bloodied lip, and her ribs were shattered from falling a heavy distance. How fragile she was, the supposed Herald of Andraste. How easily Corphyeus had shook her back and forth, had strangled and forced her to submit and kneel in a genuflect pose. Had any of the smallfolk seen her then, screaming brokenly as the Elder One tried to absorb her power, they would have lost all hope they garnered, little as it was.
Cullen had seen. It was only for the briefest of seconds as he nocked an arrow to his longbow, sending forth a flaming shaft into the night sky. It was the signal, she knew, and he stood on a honeycombed ridge overlooking the ruined town to make sure that she saw it. Ellaria had gazed into his pitying eyes as Corypheus ranted about her soul, finally summoning the courage to spit in the demon's face and unleash the final trebuchet.
The rest was chaos. A blackened, hazy memory filled with hurt and suffering. Creators, but the pain wouldn't stop. Grey-green sentinels and ironwoods surrounded her lone figure, creaking and moaning as the wind screamed, howling out of nowhere and rattling the trees with hoarse whispers. The forest rustled about her secretively as she walked, undergrowth snagging onto her tattered breeches.
Ellaria had no idea if she was going in the right direction, the brewing storm covering all tracks. The tempest swallowed her own halted footsteps, legs soaked and trembling as her leather boots filled up with sharp pebbles. She was even uncertain why she kept going. There was no point, she told herself. She would eventually succumb to cold, and if not the weather then the wolves who were following her would gladly feast on her corpse, tearing into her belly with an ominous vigour. The animals bayed up to the star-spattered heavens in anticipation. Their panting shadows slinked through the brambles with practised stealth, following her doggedly as she slowed. She could hear the hunger in their cries, and briefly wondered whether Fen'Harel was watching over them, granting them a swift meal in mercy.
The Dread Wolf.
She laughed bitterly, her foot hitting a broken wheel. Its spokes jabbed her knee, drawing forth a muffled sob. Ellaria stared at it for a moment with dulled, glassy eyes, finally realising what it meant after what seemed hours. She bent down stiffly with a wince, tugging at the buried children's toy lying next to it. A doll, she thought, with tawdry ropes serving for mouldy strands of hair. The Herald clutched it to her quivering breast, the faint smell of elfroot tickling her nose.
Her feet heedlessly scattered cold ashes into the blowing gusts as she ambled, her steps becoming more faltered and sluggish as time passed. Ellaria peered into the distance with squinted eyes, praying to see the outlines of campfires shimmering in a tantalising dance, beckoning her with false promises of warmth and safety.
The shadows suddenly seemed much more threatening now as she looked this way and that, sniffling to herself. Ellaria saw shapes come and go, but whether these were real or mere fanciful visions, she couldn't say.
That was when the hallucinations began, scorching her mind with a vivid brightness and becoming inescapable.
A young girl rushed past, babbling incoherently in a foreign tongue. Her hair was braided into pigtails, a look of fear plastered on her innocent face. She was clad in a tunic sewn from leaves, her freckled skin frightfully pale. Ellaria cried out, trying to warn the child of the man standing behind her with a lewd, feral look in his eyes.
You have such pretty pink lips. I'm going to make you a whore, knife-ear. I'm going to make you scream and beg.
A sob shook her throat as she relived the pain and horror. Her thighs ached with a terrible shame, blood slipping down to pool at her legs in a pronouncement of her guilt. She reached a shaking hand out to the wavering mirage with pleading, fragmented words, only to have it disappear and be replaced by the Commander. He walked backwards, easily keeping stride with her as he folded gloved hands behind his back in a displeased gesture, his visage shimmering and translucent. He stared at her sternly with a frown upon his lips.
Twelve years.
She slowly raised an arm, her muscles screaming in protest at the slight movement. Above, the stars glittered coldly, radiating a mocking warmth that once seemed so kind. So beckoning. Now they were had twisted, twinkling with an unbridled hatred at her weakness. They had often guided her as a child, giving solace where she sought comfort. The constellations became her friends, speaking wondrous tales as she wept, hiding in the sweeping, lonely forests. But not now.
No one had wanted to play with the despoiled elven girl. They thought her cursed, staring and muttering as rumours spread of Fen'harel molesting her, marking Ellaria with his withering touch. She felt branded. Alone. Even her parents abandoned her, leaving her an orphan. If Deshanna had not showed her a tender, motherly kindness, she would have been cast out from the clan into the woods to be banished.
"I'm sorry," she begged, falling to her knees heavily with a thud. Ellaria looked at her feet, remorse creeping down her spine when she stuttered. I failed, she thought, burying hands in her face to hide her shame. "Forgive. . ."
"Let them hear you," Cullen mocked, fiddling with his hair and cruelly laughing as grief consumed her. "You're the Herald. And I know everything. A murderer. A thief. Another prisoner, only worthy to be executed like all elves. Like all mages." His voice took on a sinister, dark tone. "Like maleficar. Did you really think that you were the victim? That anybody cared?"
You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.
"No!" Ellaria gasped for breath, blinking back the snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes. This was too much, it was. . .
You are no Dalish, the trees exclaimed, the breath catching her throat as frostbite tinged her fingertips. The wind assaulted her anew, needling her with a deluge of frozen rain and hail even as icicles began to form on her glistening nose and drawn face.
Twelve years.
She wanted to go home. But there was no home, Ellaria realised. She was alone. Always.
Nobody wanted her.
Warmth pricked her lilac eyes as homesickness washed over her in violent, unyielding waves. She wouldn't see the forests again. She wouldn't be free. Memories resurfaced of hunting in the forests and rolling meadows, stalking rams and majestic halla. Worshipping Andruil for providing food as she skinned the animals' hides with deft fingers. She was always silent, wriggling through the grass or leaping from tree to tree on slender branches, a horn raised to her lips as she awaited the signal. Like ripples on a pond.
She was always alone.
I am to die, then.
The snow was warm. It felt like a comforting blanket, embracing her with a feather-light touch. Her movements became halted and drowsy as if she was a drunken, content beggar. A strange heat enveloped her as she lifted her gaze to the purplish-grey mountains, a silent prayer in her throat. She had no more strength. It ended here, becoming a feast for wolves. Their starving bellies would be sated by the taste of her flesh.
But the smallfolk from Haven were safe. She'd. . . saved them. That was what mattered. Those weren't really fires in the distance, Ellaria told herself. It was only another illusion. Another torment. Creators, was she tired. So, so . . . tired. She vaguely tasted the coppery tang of blood pooling in her mouth as she swayed back and forth in the blustering gales.
The Herald closed her eyes, lying down in the snow and hard-packed earth. It welcomed her eagerly, a half-smile slowly curling onto her shivering lips. Ellaria would only sleep for a few minutes. . .
"There she is!"
A torch blinded Ellaria as she wearily opened her violet eyes, gazing up into the hardened face of Cassandra with a blank mien. A cloak was draped around her shoulders, someone carefully picking her up. She made a noise of pain, a cold metal breastplate sharply pressing into her side. She felt like her ribs were being crushed to smithereens, confusion making the world spin dizzily like she was being thrown from a halla.
It was delirium. It had to be. Her eyes fluttered shut, a high-pitched singing in her ears as she buried her face in the cloak. "I'm sorry. . ." She muttered. "I–I'm so, so sorry." She felf drained, her limbs paralysed and leaving her unable to move. "Please."
A hand stroked her forehead almost fondly. "You're alright," a voice said soothingly, "You're safe, just hold on." A stab of fear struck her when she heard Cullen, struggling uselessly in his arms to no avail and forcing a scream. He wanted to kill her, he wanted to—
Cassandra hissed at the amount of blood, her face paling drastically. "By the Maker," she exclaimed doubtfully, her blackish-brown eyes betraying the slight catch in her tone, "her wounds. . ."
"I'm so sorry," Ellaria sobbed. "I'm goi-going to die." He was going to murder her. He hated her. "S-stop it. I want to go home—"
"No," Cullen replied firmly, the harsh winds dishevelling his hair as he looked at her with a worried expression, his brow furrowing. "You're not." He glanced at Cassandra briefly, his breath coming out in wisps of warm air that caressed her cheeks. "We need to get her to the healers quickly."
The warrior nodded silently in agreement, walking forwards with a determined look on her battered face. Ellaria refused to open her eyes when Cassandra left, her panicked heartbeat so loud she feared that the Commander would hear it.
He still despised her. . . didn't he? Dread muffled her whimpers as she feebly dug her fingers into the cloak, inhaling sharply. Ellaria was unable to tell the truth, her fleeting grasp on consciousness slowly fading with every step. His voice lowered to a soft-spoken murmur, unintelligible like a chortling brook and haunting her further with its gentleness.
"Stay with me. Herald? We're nearing the camp." Cullen shook her, asking incessantly that she keep her eyes open. "Ellaria," he said forcefully, "don't fall asleep. Do you hear me? Stay awake."
It was so. . . hard. Had he said her name? No, she thought. She was dead already. He would never do something so informal—like holding her hand. He was a knight. An ex-templar. He didn't care about her. The Herald shuddered, becoming limp in his arms as a light-headed euphoria clung to her with a sweet sickness. Ellaria could barely hear the restrained panic creeping into his voice as he cradled her to his chest.
He was trying to make her speak. It was difficult enough just. . . existing. How could he be so cruel? No, he didn't really care. She felt as if she couldn't breathe, her eyes red-rimmed and watering from the gusts. She clawed at his armour, mumbling incoherently.
It was too difficult to think, her heartbeat slowing to a sombre drudge as her mind turned clouded and warped. Heat blasted her face until Ellaria felt that she was suffocating with its warming embrace.
Yes, she thought weakly. I am dead.
The last thing Ellaria remembered was vomiting onto someone's boots.